Silver and Cold
by Razer Athane
Summary: She’s the same as every other robot. Wired to perfection. Programmed to kill. Silver and cold. -Oneshot-


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Tekken.

Author's Note: Everything I've been writing is Tekken 6 related lately! EVERYTHING! Even stuff you guys don't know about! XDDDDD No matter. I'm also trying to get back into the fighting-side of things. I've been away from fight scenes for far too long imo. And so my "famous" fight scenes return for a while XD. Enjoy!

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**SILVER AND COLD**

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A sugary sweet face bestowed upon a cold, metallic form. The individual brush strokes are fine, but the art piece as a whole is wrong. Strange pieces simply stuck together, to create a unique object. To create something that the world has rarely seen, but every time, it's still considered to be matchless, select and elite.

There have been others before her. A series of Jack robots, one after the other, just pouring out of the Mishima Zaibatsu production line. A policeman, resurrected and transformed into a cyborg. A robot capable of imitating fighting styles. A large, powerful machine, designed for the simple task of protecting the CEO of the MFE, the one man whose head was wanted by every person in the world.

And then there was her. A dead girl, finally revived and alive once more by the will of a devoted scientist. A charming smile and lovely manners, brushing aside her curly pink hair, and adjusting her flowery outfit. She appeared to be so full of life, and so gentle. Those around her would take once glance and shake their heads. She shouldn't be here. No no, she shouldn't be here, because she would never hurt a fly, let alone fight. She doesn't proclaim to be the toughest fighter in the universe, nor is she here to settle a rivalry, or stop the man at the head of the world's flaming Armageddon.

And you're transported back to the now, taken from your various, constant, busy thoughts. It's these next few moments that will make or break you. Your eyes divert from the rough ground, ascending the opponent that stands opposite you – the subject of your previous reminiscence. Her voice flows through the area, breaking the silence of the arena, the absence of breath from the onlookers, and the lack of sound with every movement, "It's not my fault if you get hurt."

Your lips curl into a slight smirk, because she's the one who is going to get hurt, not you. Little Alisa Boskonovitch would be the one lying almost completely annihilated on the ground. Skin and metal would further mould together, until no pair of eyes could distinguish what was what. And as you slide into stance, you nod slightly to yourself, affirming yet again that you would go to the next round relatively unscathed. You were to live, even if the rule books in _this _King Of Iron Fist Tournament _allowed _for death.

Three, sturdy, short buzzes occur one after the other, signalising the start of the fight. You clench your fists slightly, and hurl your right one directly into her face, hoping to shock her and stop her from immediately attacking you back. Attack one of the weakest parts of the body, so then the upper hand will be yours. Then you can attack mercilessly with a flurry of showy, yet devastating strikes to wow the audience and pain the foe.

But to your surprise, she does not flinch. She merely smiles, her green eyes sparkling underneath the spotlights. Your own eyes widen for a moment as you draw your fist back. She should have _at least _flinched, but to no avail. From what you had seen in other fights, she merely had a few extra mechanical components. You are sure that some of her was still… human. You are sure that she was still partially… fleshy.

Your other hand morphs from a fist into a perfectly straight hand, your fingers locking tightly together. Without a second thought, you hurl the side of your hand into her neck, knowing that this type of strike at that area is _bound _to damage. The neck is a vulnerable spot of anyone's body, man or woman, child or adult.

To your happiness, it indeed does something, however, but it is not what you expect. Such a powerful strike somehow has her head fall off her body. Perplexed, you stare, blinking your eyes rapidly. You couldn't be _that _strong, surely. Maybe the robotic side of Alisa is malfunctioning, and she's falling apart before you.

You watch as it falls, her expression morphing from a placid one into a steely glare. Her hands extend out, catching the valuable thing in her hand, and suddenly, she lowers her entire body, head still in her hands. Too shocked to do anything, you feel something cold connect with your legs, and soon enough, somehow, it now _burns _instead of freezes. There is searing pain in that area, and you're somewhere within the last few seconds, you've been catapulted into the air, just screaming.

You land, your head hissing at you as it collides with the concrete. Your vision dances, and your head swims, dizzy. You can feel something drip down your face, and you can see some type of substance on the ground where you landed, but in your current disorientation, you have no idea what it is. Groaning, you shakily stand to your feet once more. So much for trying to gain the upper hand. Your plan completely backfired on you, and has left you in an excruciating amount of pain.

Soon enough, your vision pauses, stopping its hypnotic spin, and you see that Alisa's expression has not changed. She clenches her tiny, petite hands, and throws her arms to her sides. To your disbelief, two chainsaws come spurting out of her forearms, humming and roaring, as though a beast had been freed from its hellish prison.

She charges towards you, chainsaws at the ready, and lifts her left one. You move to the side, and it narrowly misses your right arm. Your lungs seemingly don't want to function at the moment, because you're just _that_ nervous now. Her other chainsaw travels directly above your head, and you duck down, swallowing. On an impulsive action, you sweep her off of her feet, tripping her over directly with your strong leg.

She falls back, landing on her side. The chainsaws disappear instantly. A small surge of pride ripples through you for successfully doing the act. As she stands, you attack again and again and again, be it by your hands or your feet. And every time, your fist clangs against a metallic part of her body – never skin. Sure, there are scratches gradually forming, but… it doesn't _feel _right. And with every strike you deliver, you are shaken to your very core, a dark feeling swarming all over you, crawling over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You raise your leg, ready to deliver an axe kick, but when you look at where your heel will land, you realise that Alisa has rolled out of the way of your strike. But still, your leg comes crashing down, like thunder; and as it does, you feel something firmly nip at your back. You turn, seeing your opponent's heels leave you, and notice that she is in the air. Two, long, metallic boosters are seen from her back, and as she spins in mid air, you raise your arms, ready to block whatever comes next.

She comes back down, fleetingly reminding you of a boomerang, slamming both of her heels into your form again – this time, into your waiting forearms. The boosters retract as she stands steadily on her feet once more, and three, swift jabs come your way – two to the face, one to the leg. This third punch jilts you slightly, making your balance waver. Boskonovitch takes this opportunity to grab you once again, determination still set in her youthful features.

The boosters erupt from her small body once more, and she holds you in place for a few moments. In the air once more, she comes zooming at you from one side. Disorientated by the strike, you spin around slightly, wobbling on your feet, and notice she is on the other side, coming back at you again. She zooms past, the strikes quick, precise and painful, and turns and returns one last time. These strikes are strong enough to have you fall to the ground, crying out loud in pain and frustration.

You sit there for a moment, trying to stand again, when a sliding kick interrupts your attempt. Biting your lip, you roll out of the way of another two, girlish kicks, panic starting to inflame your system. Your anxiety is pumped through your body, thanks to your heart, and it takes over every nerve, organ and muscle. Your mind is moving a mile a minute, coating your every thought with a list of violent profanities, and one strong sentence.

_This was the wrong fight to choose._

Swallowing, you think back to when the announcement came that Alisa would be your opponent. You laughed. You _actually _laughed, brushing it off as a joke. You thought that there was no way in hell that this pathetic excuse for a fighter would beat you, for she would be crushed below your mighty skill (or, as one of the nearby girls had snorted, 'your ego'). You _chose _to stand and fight against her. You _chose _to _not _surrender, despite the advice of those who had fought her previously.

And now, you regret your choice gravely.

As you sit there, comfy in your thoughts, the battle rages on around you. A well placed kick here, a forceful punch there… The pain rolls off of your back, because you're just in too much pain already. Your entire body is trembling, and you wonder if you're going to make it out of this fight alive. Forget the war, forget the reason you came here – were you going to make it past this round? Were you going to be living and breathing after this?

Alisa's dark expression suddenly fades, and in its place is that sugar sweet smile again. The innocent, childish grin that she wears like a mask. You blink, looking at her, perplexed, shaking on your feet. You wonder what her next move is, and how she will go about executing it. Should you raise your arms in defence? Should you lash out now and attack? Is she in any pain? Is her… her… _fuel _running low or something? Do her batteries need recharging?

You know that whatever happens here on in, your pride will be damaged severely. But maybe you can rebuild it one day. In your current frame of mind, you're afraid. You're afraid of what's going to happen to you, and not only that, you fear for what she will do to the competitor after you. Exactly how powerful is this cyborg? What more is she capable of?

You can't help but think,_ I want to walk out… Can I forfeit? Can I surrender? Is it okay?_

Her hand darts out, and the fear crawls up your spine again. Immobilised, you are thrown into the air once more. And for these moments, it's like time's been slowed down. You float up, staring into the sky, watching as clouds start to gather, as though to commemorate something horrible. The cold air rushes by you, going under your clothes, somewhat numbing the pain of your body and of your mind.

You turn your head slightly, realising that you are now falling back down. The sweet smile is still on her face, as she extends her right arm, that arm's chainsaw spitting out of her forearm once again. It stands tall and proud, aimed directly at you, as though awaiting for your heavy form to land upon it. And _she is _waiting for you to fall all the way down, you realise; and you have no way of controlling it.

Soon enough, you will be dead. And in the air, the last of your life dwindles.

You think, fading, _She's the same as every other robot. Wired to perfection. Programmed to kill. Silver and cold._


End file.
